


Nightcall

by Ias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26858074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: He could imagine Valjean perfectly. Sitting up against the headboard where they’d spent so many evenings reading side by side, occasionally turning to him and reading a passage aloud--or just brushing a strand of Javert’s hair behind his ear and kissing him on his cheek. Javert’s hands followed that path without his conscious input: brushing back his hair, pausing at the juncture of skin and sideburn where Valjean’s lips would linger.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66





	Nightcall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [howbadcanmyficsbe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY EM!!!! I hope you have an amazing day, and that you'll enjoy this humble tribute composed of two old weirdos having phone sex. <3

Halfway through his third consecutive hour of typing up conference notes, Javert’s phone started buzzing. 

He nearly ignored it. It was almost certainly Rivette, calling from three time zones back because he’d forgotten Javert was on the opposite side of the country, taking multi-page notes on powerpoint presentations and telling himself it was worth the three nights spent away from home. 

Unbidden, Javert’s eyes darted to the microwave and the blinking clock. It was after eleven here, which meant it was after eight for Rivette. That was fairly late for him to call, especially after Javert had moved in with Valjean and found something better to do with his evenings than keep working. The phone continued its trembling struggles, like a beetle trying to flip itself off its back.

Javert flipped it. The next second he fumbled to accept the call on instinct alone, Jean Valjean’s name on the screen reaching into his nervous system and operating his hands without the oversight of actual thought. 

“Jean?”

“Hey.” They had spoken earlier that day, as soon as the last of the presentations were over with. Yet even with only a couple hours separating him from the last time he’d heard Valjean’s voice, Javert still felt a familiar twist in the pit of his stomach, part happiness and part longing. “Did I wake you?” 

“No,” Javert said, and then winced. 

“I thought you said you were going to bed at eleven,” Valjean said, a curl of amusement in his voice. “Something about waking up early for a pre-presentation meeting.”

Javert turned his swivel chair away from the microwave clock and its accusatory digits, only to be faced with the clock by the bed. “Is it that late already?” 

“You’re a bad liar, Javert.” 

Javert’s mouth twisted into a smile he had no reason to hide. He didn’t point out that for him it was technically only eight thirty; unfortunately, everyone else’s schedule wasn’t set to PST. “I suppose there’s no point denying _that_.” 

“Turn off your computer and come to bed.” 

The words were so familiar they pierced right through his chest, spoken so many times from the doorway of his home office, the command irresistible even if he’d wanted to try. The hotel wifi was great, and the phone connection clear; Valjean’s voice was almost as vivid and textured as the real thing, unfiltered by thousands of miles. 

“Alright,” Javert said, and did as he was told. He saved his work methodically, closing each window one by one and feeling something inside of himself relax each time he hit the little x. “Little early for bed where you are, isn’t it?”

“I’m reading.” 

“Now who’s the bad liar. You’ll be asleep by nine without me there to keep you up.” That choice of words might have been a mistake; Javert couldn’t help but immediately think of all the strategies he’d employed to that end in the past. Kisses against the inside of Valjean’s knee while he smiled down at him, soft-eyed with want. 

“I wish you were here,” Valjean said quietly, and the ripple of want convulsed in the pit of Javert’s stomach. 

“Yes,” Javert said, and then, swallowing hard: “Me too.” 

He could imagine Valjean perfectly. Sitting up against the headboard where they’d spent so many evenings reading side by side, occasionally turning to him and reading a passage aloud--or just brushing a strand of Javert’s hair behind his ear and kissing him on his cheek. Javert’s hands followed that path without his conscious input: brushing back his hair, pausing at the juncture of skin and sideburn where Valjean’s lips would linger. Javert settled back into his chair, feeling his vertebrae shift and crack. He’d get up in a minute. 

“Are you in bed?” 

Valjean hummed an affirmative, the sound low and deep in his throat. 

“What were you going to read?” 

The phone connection stretched on in silence; he could hear Valjean breathing. It sounded a little fast. When Valjean spoke the words came in a rush. “I, ah. I wasn’t really going to read.” 

The heat in Javert’s stomach turned liquid. 

He swallowed again, his throat struggling past the two nights of lying awake in his cold, empty hotel bed, trying not to think about--anything, really. Certainly not the softness of Valjean’s inner thighs, or the fact that Javert had refused to jerk off alone in a hotel on principle alone. But principal was a cold, distant thing with the warmth of Valjean’s voice in his ear. The silence stretched on; not awkward, just tense as a tripwire. 

“What were you going to do, Jean?” he said, his voice rough.

Valjean’s laugh was shaky. “I don’t know. I just… I wanted to call. Hear you.” 

“Liar,” Javert said again, without bite; and it seemed they were defined by silences now, the flutter of breath that filled them. He could feel the shape of what they were heading for but refused to look at it straight-on; if he did, he’d lose his nerve. 

“I, um.” Long pause. A shaky inhale. “I was thinking about the night before you left.” 

His laptop screen winked out, finally powering down; he folded it closed with hands that trembled only slightly. “What about it?” he said, only faintly smug at how level he managed to keep his voice. 

Valjean laughed again. He sounded breathless and only slightly on the edge of panic. “I think you know.”

Javert couldn’t breathe, but somehow he could speak. “Tell me anyway.”

The pause stretched on so long he thought he’d crossed one line too many. But then Valjean’s breath came like a burst of static on the phone, and with it the words: “I was thinking about what you did with your tongue.”

_Hands fisted into sheets. Valjean’s back an arched parabola of need as Javert’s mouth traced the curve of muscle and spine, the softer flesh, the divots at the base of his back, lower, lower still, until Valjean was keening and gasping and holding himself open with both hands--_

The speed at which Javert’s blood shot to his groin could have probably broken some kind of record for world’s fastest erection, over 50s category. “I see,” he said in a strangled voice. 

“I think. Um.” He could imagine Valjean perfectly, holding the phone with one hand and covering his red face with the other, even though there was no one there to hide his embarrassment from. “I think I’d like you to fuck me next time.” 

“Christ,” Javert said, and he was fully hard now, so fucking hard inside the slacks he definitely should have shucked off by now. They didn’t do this. Javert could barely bring himself to use his words when they were in bed together with the lights off, though he knew how much Valjean liked it when he did. He wanted to give Valjean that, now. No matter how fumbling and awkward it ended up being. 

Valjean laughed again, and the image it painted in Javert’s mind--blushing to the white roots of his curly hair, his eyes closed and his mouth parted in a self-deprecating smile--did almost as much for him as the memory of how he’d made Valjean come apart on his tongue. 

“Are we really doing this?” Valjean asked. 

Javert huffed out a breath. “I think we are. Yes.” 

“Okay. Okay. I--” 

The sound of rustling came from the other end of the phone. Javert’s eyes closed on their own accord; he felt heavy, and also like he might vibrate out of this shitty hotel office chair if he didn’t hear Valjean’s voice. “Tell me what you’re doing, Jean.”

“I’m taking off my clothes.” 

Javert drew in a long, slow breath through his nose. He wondered if Valjean could hear it--if he could hear the little hitches in the sound, and would know what they meant. He should probably strip too, climb into the too-soft bed, prop himself up on the pillows and get comfortable the way Valjean liked him; but the thought made his head swim and his cock throb, and he needed to stay focused if he was going to offer Valjean something more than a couple minutes of rapid breathing and maybe a few groans. He unbuttoned his slacks but didn’t touch the zipper, letting his fingers rest against the warmth of his stomach through the white button down he hadn’t gotten around to taking off. He could feel the tension in his own muscles, the short jolts of each breath; if he closed his eyes he could pretend the light pressure of fingertips tracing the waistband of his pants belonged to Valjean’s hand. 

The rustling from the other end of the phone stopped. “Alright. I’m, uh. Naked.” 

“Great,” Javert said, and the pause that followed it was so spectacularly awkward that he couldn’t bite back the nervous laugh that bubbled out of his throat. He heard Valjean laughing too, and it helped. 

“I don’t really know how to do this,” Javert said frankly.

“Me neither,” Valjean replied. “You, um--want to just listen to me get off?” 

“No. Yes. God.” Javert leaned forward, bracing an elbow on the desk in front of him and covering his eyes with his hand. “Are you on the sheets or under them?”

“Under.”

“Are the lights off?”

“No, I kept them on.” Valjean sounded shy, and Javert could imagine why. Only recently had they started keeping the lights on when they were in bed together. 

“I wish I could see you like that,” Javert said, turning his face to his wrist; from the hitch in Valjean’s breath he knew it was the right thing to say. “Maybe when I get back, I could. Watch you.” 

“Sure you could keep your hands to yourself?”

“No,” Javert said honestly. “But I’d give it my best shot.”

“I could always tie you to the chair.” 

“ _Fuck_ , Jean.” He dragged his fingers up into his hair. They were shaking much harder now. “Are you touching yourself yet?” 

“No.” Another pause. “Do you want me to?” 

Javert wet his dry lips and tried to think with the head on his shoulders. It was exceedingly difficult. He’d never been good with words; he’d never much felt the lack of that skill in his life, until now. “Not yet,” he said. “Not there. Just… run your hand up and down your chest for now.” _The way you do for me_ , he didn’t say, but he knew Valjean would know. On the phone, Valjean sighed.

“What about you?” Valjean said. “What are you doing?” 

Unfortunately, all Javert could think of was the truth. “I’m uh. Sitting at my desk.” 

Valjean laughed, shaky with something other than nerves this time. “You’re not even out of your work clothes, are you?” 

“Partially,” Javert said, and the single button he’d undone meant he wasn’t technically lying. Valjean hummed again, and the fact that he wasn’t upbraiding Javert and ordering him into bed made Javert suspect Valjean liked the thought of him like this; still-clothed, a hand down his pants like a horny teenager, unable to stop for long enough to undress like a civilized person. He slid the zipper on his pants down slowly, relief growing with every row of plastic teeth it released. “More so, now.”

“Good. I want to hear you, too.” From the tremble in his voice Javert knows Valjean’s fingers have moved to his nipples, rolling them in the way Javert did for him without needing to be told--which was good, because Javert wasn’t sure he could bring himself to say the word “nipple” over the phone.

For a while there was only quiet; the sound of Valjean’s breathing like a seismograph, steady except for the occasional spike. Javert rested his palm over his erection, still trapped inside his briefs. He ached; he ignored it, racking his brain for something to say that wasn’t an expletive. 

“I want to kiss you,” he said. Honestly was the best policy, after all. He shifted his hand, and the flutters of pleasure and need traveled up his spine like bubbles in champagne. Leaning back in his chair, he shut his eyes. How thin were these walls? Could the person in the next room over hear him? His face was hot with embarrassment as well as want, but the shivering breaths over the phone wouldn’t let him stop. “I want to taste you everywhere,” he murmured, and heard Valjean’s breath go sharp.

“Javert,” he said. “Can I--I need to--”

“Yes,” Javert said. “Jean.”

“God.” Javert heard the rustle of what must be Valjean’s hand sliding under the sheets. A loud, shaky breath. Javert’s hand on the phone was white-knuckled. 

“I miss you.” 

Knowing Valjean spoke those words with his hand around his own cock was enough to push Javert straight over the edge of self-control. “I’m right here,” he said, and slipped his hand into his briefs without trying to bite back the grunt that rose up straight from the pit of his stomach.

Valjean’s breaths sounded a little different now, like he’d shifted his position on the bed; Javert could picture it instantly, the phone wedged between Valjean’s cheek and shoulder, one hand roaming across his chest and the other between his legs. The image tore a groan out of him, and he only muffled it a little bit. 

“Let me hear you.” Valjean’s voice was urgent. “Please. Javert--”

“Oh God.” Javert was already pawing down his briefs so he could get a proper hand on himself. It had only been two nights since he’d been in Valjean’s bed; they regularly went longer than that without getting hot and heavy, even when they had the opportunity. This was ridiculous. He-- 

“I’m not going to last long,” he babbled, far past the point where such a declaration could embarrass him further. 

A breathless laugh. “Me neither.” 

“Good. As long as we’re both embarrassing ourselves.” His voice was as ragged as Valjean’s breathing. It felt so good, far better than the quick, perfunctory sessions he’d occasionally had on his own. He leaned his head back against the chair’s neckrest and let a litany fall from his lips, grunts and hisses and quiet curses, a litany of words he no longer bit back. From the other end of the phone came the sounds of movement and Valjean’s harsh breathing and the occasional whimper of pleasure. 

Javert felt his climax coming like a train barreling down the rails towards him, the world trembling and filling with a roar in his ears. “Valjean, I’m going to--I’m--” he manages to bite out, and the sharp, breathy cry from the other end of the phone had him doubled over, every muscle in his body tensed to the point of agony as the pleasure ripped through him, pulse after pulse of it, and it was all he could do just to scrape together the mindfulness not to come all over the hotel desk and his computer and pad of conference notes. 

In the aftermath, he listened to Valjean’s breathing. From the dizzy slowness of it, Javert had no doubt that Valjean followed right after him. At some point in the aftermath he had tipped entirely forward to rest his forehead on the desk, which meant when he opened his bleary eyes his first sight was the mess he made of his hand and briefs. His fingers were cramping on the phone; loosening them was painful.

“I’ll be right back,” he mumbled, and then, just in case: “Don’t hang up.”

The sound Valjean made was sleepy, but one of affirmative. Raising his head from the desk, Javert squinted around blearily for the ever-present box of cheap tissues common to every hotel room. They were in the bathroom, of course, which made for an awkward shuffle before he could clean himself up and wash his hands, kicking off his pants as he did. He threw the tissues into the toilet and flushed it, disposing of all the evidence. The back of his neck blazed with lingering mortification, but he hurried back to the phone where he’d left it on the desk, the call still connected. 

“Jean?”

“I’m here.” He sounded, good, soft and content and warm, and Javert wanted nothing more in that moment than to crawl through the phone lines and into their bed, to kiss Valjean’s eyelids and lick him clean. If that thought had passed through his head forty seconds ago, it would have been out his mouth before he could form half a thought of stopping it. But the spell was broken; now he could only sink onto the bed with the phone pressed so tightly to his ear the ambient static of the call felt more real than the distant whine of sirens from far outside his window. 

“You’re not allowed to fall asleep,” he muttered into the phone. “It’s not even nine where you are.” 

“I’m an old man. I’m allowed to go to bed early.” 

Javert snorted. His own eyes were closed, all the better to soak in the sound of Valjean’s voice. He was still wearing his button-down; he should fix that. In a minute. “You can’t use that excuse for everything. The socks and crocs were far enough.”

“My feet get cold.”

“Then wear normal shoes.”

“I like to be comfortable.”

“You’re ridiculous,” is what Javert tries to say, but what actually comes out is, “I love you.”

The fact that Valjean’s delighted laugh made him actually blush was just another sign that he was mentally reverting to a teenager. “I had no idea you felt that way about my crocs,” Valjean said. “I can describe myself wearing them next time, if that would spice things up.” 

Javert made the mistake of imagining his feet knocking mid-coitus against socks and squeaky rubber and said, “Actually, I think I’m ready to never have sex again.” 

“We’ll see how long that lasts. And for the record, I love you too.” 

Valjean sounded so happy Javert could feel it, a warmth rising in his own chest and filling every inch of his skin. The honor of being loved by Jean Valjean was never one Javert had accepted lightly, but after years of Valjean’s repeated urging, he had learned to try. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Javert said, letting those four words convey as much as he dared. Valjean’s response was a sleepy murmur--the damn man was going to fall asleep after all. Ridiculous. Javert told himself he wasn’t smiling, but he was, as evidenced, a bad liar. 

“Goodnight, Jean,” he said.

“Goodnight, Javert,” Valjean replied thickly, his voice already drowned in sleep. Javert knew he ought to hang up then, undo the buttons on his shirt and hang it up in the hotel closet along with the rest of his wardrobe. He ought to brush his teeth and shower and review his notes for tomorrow. At the very least, he ought to turn out the light.

Instead he lay there quietly, listening to the rise and fall of Valjean’s breaths, as if at any moment he could roll over across the vast distance and wrap an arm over his chest to feel them.

Javert woke up the next morning with his phone dead on the pillow and the light still on, and couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed. 


End file.
